by Ni-Ni Simone
16
Spencer
Yessss, goshdiggitydangit. I felt my booty shaking—to the left, to the right. It was jiggling, baby. Swinging. Bouncing. Clapping as my heels clicked against the gleaming marble floor.
It was Wednesday. Humpty-hump day! And I had been humping all last night and into the wee hours of the morning. Oooh, sookie-sookie. Yes, yes, yess! I felt good. I might have been wearing a stylish wrap dress, with a pair of six-inch red bottoms, but beneath the silky fabric I was bare. Commando.
I was being naughty, feeling naked as a beaver in heat.
And I felt liberated.
Felt real loosey-goosey.
And I was loving it.
Heeheehee.
Why hadn’t I thought about bearing it raw—I mean bare—before?
I shook what my momma gave me. Enticed all the boys to stomp the yard and lick up my double decker, but I wasn’t paying any of them nasty horndogs any mind. So they could catcall and whistle until the cows drowned. This milkshake wasn’t on the dessert menu. And there was no way any of these dirty toads were going to be lapping at my milk bowl.
I paused and scanned the crowded hallway, catching the eye of Corey, that ole nasty polygamist. Cheater. Liar. Dirty horndog. He was one of Rich’s many ex-boos and one of my side thing-a-lings.
Yes, he’d cheated on her with me, then swore he was leaving her to be with me. But then he turned around and chose smutty Rich over me. Then dumped her, for the next trick. Anywhoo . . .
There was a video of the two of us—me on my padded knees, my face pressed into his—
Ugh.
He licked his lips and grinned at me.
I felt like pulling out my flyswatter and running up on him and swatting his handsome face up. I still couldn’t believe I’d wasted all of my good tongue tricks on that heathenish boy. Ooh, he was lucky I was still drunk on a whole carton of man nectar from the night before; otherwise, I would have turned this hallway inside out.
I sneered at him, then spotted Rich at her locker. I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t speaking to that, that hood roach. She was so unappreciative of my good-good friendship, so dang ungrateful of my loving and kind ways. And I was downright sick of her foolery.
Godjeezus! She looked so stank-a-dank in them tight pants. I guessed she was going for the skinny-jeans look, but it was an epic fail. It looked more like a big girl trying to stuff herself into a three sizes too small.
Ugh!
I swear. Sometimes Rich could be so dang trifling. All her life she’d been known to turn to hot wings, beer, and boys to fix her life—when she was down, or bored, or lonely, or simply being trampy. All she knew was eating, drinking, and bouncing on bedsprings. First name Hook, last name Er. She was a pimp’s delight.
I turned my nose up. I could smell the stench of her nasty ways from where I was standing, and I felt the bile rising in my throat. It was a messy job, but I supposed who better to be piggish and whorish than her. So I wasn’t going to judge her. Not today.
I ran my fingers through my hair, then sauntered over toward my locker—all coy and cute. I was too dang blessed with good jewels, good heels, and a juicy meat-basket to get home to, to be stressed by the likes of Queen Petty.
Heeheehee. Ooh, I wonder what Rich would do if she knew RJ was still tucked tightly beneath my sheets, half-naked and snoring. RJ flew in from London last night and greeted me at the door of my bedroom suite with a wide smile and a pet rock that couldn’t wait to be played with.
Mmmph. I felt my body shaking from the inside out as I punched in the code to my combination, then opened my locker, making Rich invisible.
Several long moments later, she slammed her locker shut. “Don’t do me, skank-breath. You dumb blonde. I know you see me. Or are you that damn blind?”
I peered from around my locker door. “Oh, hey, Piggy-Wiggy,” I said, gazing down at her diamond-stiletto-clad feet. “Cute hoofs.”
Her perfectly lined eyes widened as she shouldered her bag. “Piggy? Hoofs? Trick! Whore! How dare you disrespect me! I ain’t no damn piggy. They’re fat and nasty, and those ugly pink things stink. I’m cute like a bichon poodle.”
I blinked, then said, “Ooh, yes. I see the resemblance.” I blinked again. “Yes, you definitely have the face of a dog.”
“You got that right, tramp. And a cute one, too.” She frowned. “Wait.” She placed a hand up to her chest. “Clutching pearls! Are you calling me dog-faced?” She stamped her heeled foot. “I know you’re not tryna call me ugly, Speeencer!”
I smirked. “Oh, no, Rich. I would never call you that. You’re a cute poodle, remember?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make me slice you with my fingernails, trick. You make me so sick, Spencer. I mean, God! Don’t you know I have feelings too? Do you even give a damn about what happened to me this morning . . . ?”
I shrugged. “No. Not necessarily.”
“Mr. Westwick tried to do me in front of the press,” she said, disregarding me. “That old nasty tea bagger tried to embarrass me on the red carpet. And then, to make matters worse, that damn globe head London tried to set it off too.”
“Ma’am, stop,” I said. “That’s so two weeks ago.”
Rich scoffed. “Well, it feels like it just happened. I’m still grieving, Spencer. Every time I walk up the stairs and don’t see the red carpet, I have a panic attack. And where the heck were you, huh?” She jabbed a finger in the air. “I’ll tell you where you were, Speeeencer. You were somewhere on your knees trolling back alleys!”
I stuffed my physics book inside my bag, then slammed my locker shut. “Rich, shut it. Worry about that waterbed hanging over the waistband of them tiny pants you have on. Now good day, lady.”
I spun on my heels and started shaking what my momma gave me down the hall. But Rich caught up to me, walking in step. “Oh, so you think you can run off, huh, Speeencer? You think you can dismiss me? Well, you can’t. I’m not dismissable. And I will not be ignored. I’m all over you, Speeeencer. You damn troll. You, you bobblehead.”
I tossed my hair, ignoring her haranguing. I felt her gaze burning into the side of my face. I saw her from my peripheral, eyeing me up and down. And then I didn’t see her anymore. She stopped.
I glanced over my shoulder.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at my salt shaker.
Then she hurriedly caught up to me. “Why are your booty cheeks clapping all over the place? Are you wearing a thong, tramp?”
“Bye, Harriet Tubman,” I said, ignoring her question.
“Harriet Tubman!” Rich said indignantly. “Didn’t she play in that Madea movie? I am not that old lady who was driving that train. Isn’t she Jane Pittman’s sister or first cousin or something?”
Lawdjeezus. And I’m the dumb blonde?
I shot her an incredulous look. “No, Miss Celie. They were mother and daughter,” I said sarcastically.
“Oh, right. I knew they looked alike.”
I nodded my head, smirking. “Unh-huh. And you were the Underground Railroad, letting everyone trample through you.”
“And I was a damn good railroad, too, bish! My tracks are real wide, and greasy, honey. I keep it lubricated, honey.”
“Choo-choo,” I sang out, pumping my arm in the air, like a conductor. “All aboard!”
“Yasss, honey, yasss,” Rich said, excitedly. “Hop up on the Midnight Express.”
“Yes, boo,” I egged on. “The good-time party ride, nonstop. Hop on, hop off.”
“Yasss, girl, yasss. I’m the last stop to goodness.”
I rolled my eyes. But laughed along. “Unh-huh. You’re a one-stop train ride to the clinic.”
“Yasssss, honey, yassss.” She frowned. “Wait. What are you trying to say, Speeeeencer? Don’t do me. I haven’t been to a clinic in months.”
I clapped my hands together, my diamond bangles clinking as we rounded the corner toward homeroom. “Hip-hip-hooray! You should be so pr
oud of yourself, Rich. What a major accomplishment.”
“Girl, it is,” Rich said, sounding pleased with herself. She lowered her voice. “I was so sick of wearing them damn ugly disguises. Those hideous wigs gave me nightmares and a bad case of acne across my forehead.”
I smirked. “Well, at least you’re not smelling like Swiss cheese anymore.”
“Whaaaat? Clutching pearls! I don’t do Swiss cheese, tramp. If it ain’t Brie, it ain’t right! Don’t do me.”
“Oh, I won’t,” I said, immediately spotting Mr. Sanchez Velasquez, one of the permanent substitute teachers. And one of Rich’s one-night stands. And she’d had many—too many to keep count of. I’d lost count around fifty-one, fifty-two—and that was like in eighth grade.
God, this girl had a lot of miles on her cootie-cat.
And Mr. Fine Man Sanchez Velasquez might have taught physics, but that night when Rich dragged him up to her hotel suite, after several drinks and platters of hot wings, she’d taught him about the laws of being a ho.
“Oh, but I know who would do you,” I said snidely.
“Who?”
“Oh, don’t play coy, Rich,” I said in a hushed tone. “You know who I’m talking about. You see him standing there in them nicely fitted khaki pants.”
Rich sucked in a breath, then snorted. “Lies! And fabrications! I would never do an old man like him. No matter how fine and sexy and kissable he was—I mean is. I have standards. And I don’t do teachers. Ever.”
I gave her a look. She was a ding-dang liar. Oh, how she just randomly forgot that she’d already confessed to me her dirty transgressions. She’d told me all about how she twerked it up and down his love pole.
But, okay, whatever; she could stay stuck in her delusions.
“And after a round of drinks,” I stated flatly, “you, your panties, and your standards drop real low.”
“Bish, lies and deceit,” she hissed. “Don’t do me! I keep my panties up over these curvy hips.”
“Rich, you exhaust me,” I said, feigning a yawn.
“Heeey, Mr. Sanchez,” she cooed, giving him a little finger wave as we approached him.
“It’s Velasquez,” I corrected.
She sucked her teeth. “Same difference.”
Mr. Velasquez flashed a gleaming smile. “It’s cool,” he said coolly. “Either one is fine.” He glanced at his watch. “You both might want to get a move on it before you’re late for homeroom.” He flashed another smile, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Of course, I didn’t say a word, just stood there eyeing Rich as she batted her eyelashes, sucked in her belly fat, and poked out her double Ds.
I almost spit up a little in the back of my mouth. Rich was truly walking in the valley of whoredom. So I did what any classy woman would do. I left her standing there just as the bell rang, all doe-eyed and slutty, walking into homeroom as Mr. Westwick rounded the corner.
17
Heather
“At the end of the day—when you find yourself tossed out of your dressing room with your nameplate thrown in your face, all of your belongings stuffed in some raggedy box, and that little twinkling silver star gets yanked out of your hands, do you really think anyone is going to care about who you used to be in Hollywood . . . ?”
Kitty’s voice haunted me, her words taunting me.
Lady, bye! I was still about to get this money up. Yeah, okay, maybe I got a bit sidetracked, slid back a little to my old ways, but homeless I would never be. I belonged on top, and that was exactly where I planned to be. Period, point blank!
“. . . what you better do is figure out who Heather Cummings is. Because right now, from where I’m sitting, Heather Cummings is broke! Heather Cummings is irrelevant . . . !”
But I wasn’t irrelevant!
Was I?
No. Hell no. I was Heather Cummings. Famed star. Actress. Singer.
“. . . you want fame? Then be smart about it! Amass you a fortune! Because fame without fortune doesn’t mean a thing when you’re sleeping in a tent under a bridge, which is where you’re going to find yourself, little girl—smelling and looking like the inside of a third-world sewer, if you don’t stay focused . . .”
I felt myself get light-headed. I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I felt like I was being attacked from all sides. The enemy was everywhere. Everyone was trying to do me, to see me fail.
Kitty. Camille. And these frickin’ tabloids.
I gripped the magazine I was holding in my hand and read the latest dirt being tossed on me by the media.
This time Gutz & Glam was coming for me.
It’d been almost three weeks since my so-called termination from the Kitty Network. And I wasn’t gonna lie, the news had shaken me a bit. But I quickly bounced back. I was a star, baby! More than some overnight sensation! And the last place I’d ever end up was in some damn sewer or under some bridge. There were levels to my success, to my hotness. And I had enough fans to keep me relevant, so screw Kitty!
And screw that filthy gossip rag!
Still, I gripped the pages of the magazine and read the story:
Well, shut down the airwaves, my hungry gossip hounds! Old news is sometimes still juicy news. Looks like the good-time party girl, Heather Cummings, has gotten a swift kick in that ten-thousand-dollar artificial rump shaker of hers by none other than Kitty Ellington herself.
An anonymous source close to the Kitty camp states that the media mogul and queen of all things good and dirty has snapped shut the purse strings and pulled the plug on that horrid reality-TV show Kickin’ It with Heather.
Womp, womp, womp!
Hated it!
That show was about as dry as the bottom of Heather’s wide feet, so we can all rest assured there’ll be no award nominations with her name on them. and the only Oscar Heather will ever touch is the one her mother won over a hundred years ago. So it’s safe to say it looks like there’s another washed-up actress in the Cummings household.
If you ask me, my sweet cherubs, Kitty Ellington did the world a favor by pulling the plug. Hand clap to Mrs. Ellington for trying to resuscitate Heather’s lifeless career, but not even Jesus Christ himself could resurrect her. The teen star’s acting was mediocre at best. And her defunct Wu-Wu Tanner show was—uh, can we say—overrated. That woolly-haired girl couldn’t act her way out of a trash bag. But a source states that if she doesn’t get a handle on all of her frivolous spending, she’ll be picking through more Hefty bags than she can count, trying to find her next meal ticket.
Catch it, my sweet chickadees.
The pop-locking, dropping-it-like-it’s-hot iTunes hit maker is near broke!
Yes, my loves. You read it here first.
Don’t be surprised if in the coming months we don’t spot the blunt-wielding hooch selling her tramp-stamp fashions to the locals and tourists down at Venice Beach. Gasp!
Or in the words of her arch nemesis—oops, or is that half sister?—Rich Montgomery, “Clutching pearls!”
I felt myself swoon. Those stinking beeeeeeyotches stayed coming for me when I didn’t call for them. I felt myself shaking from the inside out. They didn’t know a damn thing about me, and yet all they wanted to do was talk about me. Try to drag me for filth!
Kitty hadn’t shut ish down! So what if I wasn’t on her wack-azz television network, anymore. I didn’t need her or her measly handouts! I was still on top! I wasn’t broke! My coin purse was still heavy. Dollars in the bank still had multiple zeros behind them.
So that effen hater (all of them!) could go choke on a—
“Yo, Ma!” a voice boomed through the intercom system. “You wasting my time, yo! Dafuq! Are we laying tracks or watching you daydream?”
I blinked and caught the eye of the thick-muscled, dark-skinned producer who everyone called Black, as he glared at me through the glass partition.
Co-Co and I had come to Thug Hitz to lay down the tracks for my fourth single, “Catch Me If You Can.”
But so far the only thing I’d done was stare at this stupid magazine, reading and rereading the slander printed about me.
Mediocre?
Me?
Washed up?
Never that.
They had me all kinds of twisted. There was nothing mediocre about my acting skills. I wasn’t some second-rate actor. I was a phenomenon, a world-class act.
I swallowed, then glanced down at the crumpled issue of Gutz & Glam in my hand.
“Heather Suzanne, you can’t get anything right, can you?”
“I don’t need another junkie on the loose . . .”
I shook my mother’s voice from my head.
Get your mind right! I mentally scolded myself. Don’t let them hoes get to you. You’re the hottest thing poppin’! You wanna keep the haters talking, so let ’em talk! And let ’em keep hatin’!
But she called me washed up! Broke!
You’re not washed up! You’re not broke! Four million dollars in the bank is not broke!
But I would have to skim back my spending.
Oh, God, no-no-no-no!
I had to let nothing get in the way of my hustle and flow.
Not Kitty. Not Camille. And not the hating-azz media.
Where the hell is Co-Co? That shady ho is never around when I need him.
Mmmph. He was probably somewhere in some bathroom stall treating some rapper to some wet sunshine. I didn’t know who was worse, him or Spencer.
But anyway . . . I had to get this money. Prove them all wrong. All I needed was a pinch of goodness so I could get my mind right.
I slammed the magazine down. “Give me a second,” I finally muttered, grabbing my clutch and scrambling toward the door that led to a private bathroom.
Once inside, I locked the door, then quickly rummaged inside my clutch, retrieving my black velvet get-right pouch.
